


names of light and names of heat

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minisode: Many Happy Returns, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock in the last chapter, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Short Chapters, Sikenlock, based on Saying Your Names by Richard Siken, no Watson baby or wedding, rampant use of metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: He dreams.In them, Sherlock steps from the ledge and his name tastes dry on John's tongue like too many stale cigarettes. The cartons John had hidden about the flat - the same packs he finds right where he left them, untouched.





	1. names like pain cries

_His voice on tape, his name on the envelope,_   
_the soft sound of a body falling off a bridge_   
_behind you, the body hardly even makes_   
_a sound. The waters of the dead, a clear road,_   
_every lover in the form of stars, the road_   
_blocked._

[Richard Siken, Saying Your Names]

 

Grief is not linear. It does not leave a _sorry I missed you_ card by the door nor does it knock. Instead, it bleeds through the walls and seeps from the floorboards until you've no choice but to swallow its bitterness. It clings to dusty curtains and fading leather. Grows thick upon untouched books and abandoned beakers.

Somedays it comes as a faint whisper, hardly above a low buzzing. But mostly, it screams dark and ugly with sharpened teeth. Its touch grazes John's skin like a thousand tiny lacerations at once and this is where it hurts the most. His hands remember another squeezing tight and frantically running through the streets of London. He'd been so foolish then; believing the long shadow of death would leave Sherlock untouched. 

Every cell in his body, every heartbeat - misses the impossible.

 +

He dreams.

In them, Sherlock steps from the ledge and his name tastes dry on John's tongue like too many stale cigarettes. The cartons John had hidden about the flat - the same packs he finds right where he left them, untouched. 

A frantic version of himself blanches pasty white and nervously repeats Sherlock's name as if he might pop up, irritated, with "For godssake John, spit it out." But he never does. A name claws from the inside out - Sherlock Sherlock _Sherlock._

Grief takes everything and leaves nothing. It hollows out the name and taints it dark with blood until John feels sick. It's the kind of hurt that cannot be washed away and Sherlock Holmes is covered in it.

John wakes and thinks, not for the first time, what an inconvenience it is to live after death.

 

+

 

 It's a blustery Tuesday three weeks after the end of everything and John is standing outside of the door to their flat. The walls echo laughter, the creaking staircase is a symphony he cannot forget no matter how hard he tries.  Nothing has changed here - nothing physical at least but it feels upended. Upside down. Cracked right down the middle, creating a divide and wouldn't it be poetic if he died in the same space where he loved. 

The sound of footfalls on the stairs make John's heart beat faster. He's halfway expecting the great arsehole Sherlock Holmes to be there when he turns.

"I've left it unlocked, dear." Mrs. Hudson sniffles and John chides his fool heart for its refusal to accept the loss. It doesn't feel real, he wonders if it ever will.

He grunts and lifts his chin but keeps his fists firmly clenched at his side.

"I dropped by the bakery earlier and wouldn't you know it, they tried to pass me a box of lemon tarts. He did love them, oh Sherlock."

Sherlock's name sounds like the final note of a farewell piece in high pitched violin like the scream caught inside his throat, the last goodbye in a suicide note. He can't do this. He thought he could return and collect a box of belongings then retreat to the new flat he'd leased but no. This place is a funeral parlor without a body.

"I, um, I have somewhere to be. I'm sorry," he mumbles before rushing down the stairs and out into the cool air.

Two days later, Mrs. Hudson drops by with his belongings and doesn't speak a word. She kisses his cheek and tries not to cry as she leaves. The tears fall anyway and John sits, numbly, as she leaves.


	2. names like tombstones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg drops by with a DVD, Molly visits.

Greg calls him up three months after, having worked up the nerve to apologize properly. The bags under his eyes attest to his grief and lack of sleep. He drops off a shoebox of belongings including a DVD that includes the outtakes of a birthday party Sherlock hadn't attended.  
  
"I don't know...what do I say?" Sherlock's voice haunts and John shatters. Its familiar baritone fills the walls of his flat. He wants to yell at the television set and tell Sherlock a thing or two about up and leaving the people who care about you. What _do_ you say? He thinks.  
  
   
  
Given the chance, he'd swallow his pride and give wings to everything he should've said but never did and then some.  
  
_Your ash collection wasn't half bad._  
  
_Remember that time the golem nearly killed you? I wish he'd taken me instead...if I knew...I wouldn't want to be here._  
  
_You really do snore in your sleep._  
  
_She was right. We were a couple. We were unstoppable, weren't we? Sorry about Sarah. Sorry I stormed out that night. Sorry about the argument on the stairs. Sorry I nicked your second favorite scarf after you died. Sorry I only saw you and no one else in the whole goddamn world._  
  
_When we first met, Mycroft said I could be the making of you. No._ You _rebuilt_ me _._  
  
_I hate your harpoon. It wasn't hygienic to wash it in our shower, you prick. You got blood on my favorite candle._  
  
_The bakery tried to give Mrs. Hudson your favorite tarts today and it made her cry. Why'd you have to like those? God I hate lemon. I hate tarts. I hate that I can't tell Ella about us - whatever we were._  
  
_I miss you. Come home._  
  
   
  
He scowls at the television and pours himself a drink. He's becoming Harry, succumbing to the alcoholism that runs rampant in their family, and he doesn't care. Let him die by his own hand, clutching a tumbler of scotch and the remote.  
  
"I'll tell you what you can do...you can stop being dead," he mumbles.  
  
A familiar voice replies, "Okay."  
  
The shock hits him as the doorbell rings. He pauses the DVD and swings it open to find Molly with a forced smile and take away. She does that sometimes, says it's what Sherlock would want.  
  
"Hungry?," she asks.  
  
John opens the door further and allows her to enter. The first thing she sees after depositing the bags in the kitchen is Sherlock throwing a wink and smiling. She quickly covers her mouth in a failed attempt to hide a sob.  
  
" _Sherlock_ ," she whispers.  
  
Once more, it sounds wrong. Like the ledge of St Barts. Like the priests voice solemnly reciting "We are gathered here today to put to rest William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was a good man..."  
  
He was _my_ good man, John thinks.

  
  
He begins to unpack the food and murmurs the name under his breath once just to hear it aloud, from his own lips. The way it should be.


	3. names forbidden or overused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He, that is to say: Sherlock, would've liked you," John stammers.
> 
> Mary smiles brightly and pats his hand. "Tell me about him."
> 
> [John tries to move on and fails.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your name like a box where I keep my love  
> Your name like a nest in the tree of love

"He, that is to say: Sherlock, would've liked you," John stammers.

Mary smiles brightly and pats his hand. "Tell me about him."

The candle upon the table between them flickers and takes John back to Angelo's and lavender lights. To panting along the stairwell of 221B and feeling the blood pumping through his veins like a freight train.

"Sherlock," he clears his throat and sucks in a deep breath. Its been two years and it still hurts.

He and Mary have been dating for six months at this point and it has taken this long to work up the nerve to tell her about the great love of his life.

He tries again and her eyes reflect pity. He hates it. "Sherlock Holmes is...was...my best friend. He, um, we were....I am grateful to have known him." He breathes in deep once more and his skin prickles with anxiety, eyes fill up with tears. He will not fall apart, not here.

"I'm...its getting late. If you'd like to come back to my place," he begins. I won't show her the blue scarf, the photographs I keep, the newspaper clippings from better days, he thinks. The heart holds its secrets close.

She nods and signals for the waiter to bring the check.

 

He drinks heavily that night as she strokes his hair and the words come smoother. Every sentence seems to carry the name he rarely speaks these days. They fall asleep curled up on the sofa together with the DVD safely tucked within the liquor cabinet.

John dreams of Baker Street.

 

+

 

In between Mary and work at a clinic he'd applied for, John mourns. Three a.m. frequently finds him gripping a bottle tight and brokenly murmuring Sherlock's name over and over. It's funny this -- the things you miss. Like how the name tastes in John's mouth and the pleasant warmth it brings. It offsets the bitter tang of liquor perfectly.

He passes out with a blue scarf in hand.

 

+

 

Two weeks after a drunken night at the pub alone, he rambles about bloody goddamn intestines in the toaster and severed hands in the freezer, much to the shock of many a customer. Their eyes bug out and he wonders what they'd look like in a jar and catches himself laughing at one patron in particular. There are crows nests around the mans small beady green eyes as he glares in John's direction. They'd keep a bag of toes company in the refrigerator, he thinks. Sherlock would cackle gleefully and add 3cc's of this, 2mL of that until the eyes were to his liking. 

John sounds mad as a box of frogs, a right mad man and he knows it. Sherlock would laugh if he were here and begin to carelessly list off ways in which said eyes would be more useful than they were at the current moment.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock when John's purchasing the wrong brand of tea. When he's arguing with the pin and chip machine.

Sherlock when he passes a funeral parlor and surpasses grief. Moves on to - 'I wonder what was the cause of death? Choking on a chicken bone? A scorned lover? Cyanide in a bottle of sports drink? Unlikely that one.'

Sherlock in his dreams, his nightmares.

Sherlock's face on tabloids and newspapers, speculating about whether his death was suicide or homicide via an angry client.

Sherlock; forever on his mind and rarely Mary. It is at that moment that he knows what he must do. It isn't fair to Mary for him to go on trying to stuff her into a jagged hollowed out shape she'll never fill.

 

 

He chooses a cozy coffeehouse that's far from Baker Street and nervously flips a packet of sugar back and forth. They say nothing for a full five minutes, merely sip their drinks in silence until John speaks.

"I loved him," he says. His voice cracks and she covers his hand with her own.

"John."

He shakes his head no and draws his hand away. He needs to say it out loud to at least one person in this cold greyscale world. 

"No. Just. This isn't easy for me, you know. It hasn't been...I loved him."

She tilts her head to the side, studying him. "You _love_ him," she replies. It's a bold statement, a correct assumption.

He fights to urge to argue that it's not like that, it was never. But it was and he knows it. 

"I do."

He's sitting in front of a beautiful woman and he doesn't want to be here. He's in love with a dead man and speaking words of love, two years too late.

"May I meet him?," she asks.

The question takes him by surprise and he abruptly looks up, eyes wide. "What?"

She smiles, politely and folds her hands together. "I understand, John. I've always suspected as much. I've known we were over for awhile yet. I would like to meet the person I could never be...if that's okay."

If he were alive, Sherlock would sabotage their first meeting and criticize her clothing or pick her apart like a specimen but she is here, living and breathing and he is. He is not.

"Now?"

She nods.

 

The shiny black stone bares the name Sherlock chose to go by and still holds the flowers John left last week. She slips her hand into his and it almost feels wrong.

"Sherlock Holmes," she states as if to introduce herself.

The hand in John's pocket balls into a fist and he wishes to god he had a nice stiff drink in it. She shouldn't be here, the stone shouldn't exist. John should be standing beside of a towering brunette with curls and eyes that light up at the word _murder._

"Mary Morstan," he says to the gravesite.

 

 +

 

They briefly keep in contact in the months after. John finds that he doesn't miss her as much as he thought he would. 


	4. your name like a song I sing to myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns.

"Sherlock? Oh Jesus...oh Christ...you...but you're."

The room spins and John feels sick. He's dreaming, he must be. Why else would he be standing in their old flat with everything in place, untouched. Why else would the man himself be sat in his chair as if he'd never left?

He recalls a phone call and Mrs. Hudson's elated frantic voice on the other end. The cab ride over had been utter hell and he'd ran every heinous scenario through his head. He should've kept in contact with her over the years, should've visited more.

Upon arriving, she'd wrapped her arms around him and sobbed against his shoulder before leading him upstairs. She hadn't even explained, said he'd understand once he stepped inside and, "John, dear. Be gentle."

He clutches the back of his own chair and breathes harsh breaths through his nose, in and out. This is a nightmare that he will not survive - it's the most realistic one yet.

"John," a voice that sounds like Sherlock murmurs. He approaches as if John were a frightened animal waiting to lash out, hands in front of him. Soft steps on the rug. Impossible. Improbable.

 

 _"Okay."_ John's heart reminds him. In the tape Sherlock agreed and he's-

 

"NO," he growls and jabs a finger in Sherlock's direction. Christian's speak of heaven, the Norse have Valhalla; the house of the dead. Here -- here is not there. Pale skin and unruly curls, belstaff collar flipped up at the neck, an empty grave, John's words a soliloquy unheard.

This Sherlock stares at the floor and tucks his hands in his pockets. He appears smaller, broken. He should be proud and tall, boasting about a cadaver he'd sweet talked Molly into parting with (parts of it at least).

"You were dead, Sherlock. I-we buried you. The priest, he said...and there were last rites. Mycroft ordered the stone, he-he...I brought flowers. And Mary and- **why**?" He grits his teeth until it hurts.

"WHY. I want to know **WHY** , Sherlock."

How many times had he spoken to a Sherlock who was no more? Had talked about the mundane and tedious lines of patients with their broken arms and vaccines? Had explained about Mary and apologized to empty air for not visiting the stone more than three times a year?

His name feels like home; a home where John buried his heart.

Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, appears to be apologetic about his actions.

"I'm sorry."

 

What followed were angry words and even angrier tears; a landslide of pain dripping from the counter and drifting through the air. A kicked table and a nearly irresistible urge to punch Sherlock Holmes in the face then follow it with a kiss.

Explanations, like maps, like apologies. Words like swords impaling the weak.

A breathless hug, the smell of warmth and promises - _home._

An arm across John's shoulders, slumped on the couch side by side after staying awake until well after two a.m.

 

John dreams of blood, songs of love and loss, wilted flowers bursting into life.


	5. names of heat and names of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We laugh and we’ve got nothing left to lose and our hearts turn red and the river rises like a barn on fire  
> I came to tell you, we’ll swim in the water  
> We’ll swim like something sparkling underneath the waves  
> Our bodies shivering and the sound of our breathing and the shore, so far away

When Mount Vestivus erupted, smoke and debris rained down from the skies. The people of Herculaneum saw the carnage and chose to remain. They wanted to believe the damage was done and they'd survive to see the morning sun. Though some chose to flee in fear of another incoming attack, others fretted over damaged homes and markets.

Surely they should've foresaw their imminent death, should have heeded the warnings.

In their final moments they would've poured forgiveness and love like the sweetest wine - a toast to the fiery end. Their bodies serve as an eternal reminder: we loved here.

 

Sherlock should've known. Like the townspeople, he fed himself pretty lies.

 

"John!"

An explosion, a burst of heat and light. John's eyes wide and blue, a hand thrown out to warn Sherlock - come any closer and we'll both die here. A case gone terribly wrong - sure, the culprit had been arrested but not before setting his final plan in motion. He'd intended on going out in style; in a way that London would never forget. Cocky and high on arrogance, the man had laughed and casually informed the two of them of a bomb planted in an abandoned warehouse.

Within it were highly guarded government secrets; papers Mycroft deemed confidential and sensitive. They needed to be retrieved immediately and seeing as Sherlock and John hadn't worked an actual case in the two months since his return, he'd gifted it to them. Practically wrapped it in a red bow.

 

Life at 221B had returned to a fluid version of normal: tea, specimens, Mrs. Hudson fretting over them, Greg having a pint with John at the pub, Anderson profusely apologizing, bad telly, casual touches when passing the cup of sugar cubes or morning newspaper.

It was tiring and Sherlock wanted something more than this. In hopes of stirring some life back into John, he'd taken the case. And now...now he might've lost him. He loved this man more than his own life, the heart in his chest - marred and battered but present. Loving John.

Give him all of London, the Queens palace, the sun in the sky - he'd turn away. There is one constant in the whole of the world that makes everything worth it and it has always been John Hamish Watson.

 

John, who is lying on charred grass outside of what remains of the warehouse. His breathing is shallow, face smudged and scraped but alive. Sherlock does a quick inventory - lifts his hands and presses an ear to his chest. Scans his arms and legs, torso. Everything is accounted for.

"John. John, wake up."

He gently pats the side of John's face repeatedly in hopes that it might wake him.

"Please, for me. John."

 

In the two years he'd been tortured and on the run, taking down Jim Moriarty's network, he'd talked to John. Hell he'd even heard his voice in his head, sassily undermining clues and poking fun at the collars of his bellstaff. It had been the only thing keeping him afloat; knowing the sacrifices meant John would live.

Sherlock had existed in sort of a half life, going through the necessary motions of survival and nothing more. Coming home had felt like rising from the dead like a man with one mission in mind.

 

John coughs and sputters, blessed noises. Sherlock's eyes fill with hot tears and he doesn't bother brushing them away.

"Sher...Sherlock...smell smoke," John says, voice hoarse.

Sherlock can't help it, he laughs through the tears. "That would be you."

Mount Vestivus, he thinks, has spared us.

"S-sorry...the papers...My-Mycroft?"

"Went up in flames," Sherlock replies. Mycroft won't be pleased but then again is he ever?

John begins to laugh and it comes out as a hoarse cough. It's the most beautiful sound and Sherlock, overcome with emotion, peppers kisses over his cheeks. His forehead. His nose. The crease right beside of his lips; hesitates there.

John coughs once more and palms Sherlock's cheek, brushes away a stray tear. "Sherlock," he says. Rough around the edges, _John._

The ambulance will arrive at any moment to cart him away and assess the damage. This is not the time or place to be falling in love, it never has been. But they don't operate on conventional standards and love is rarely logical.

"Come'ere," he whispers.

He could be halfway 'round the world and Sherlock would come running at the sound of his voice. He leans in and the hand on his cheek slides around to the nape of his neck. Their lips meet and it's nothing more than a quick kiss, given the circumstances, but John smiles into it.

"Sherlock," he whispers. His name; a promise. A confirmation - _we loved here.  
_

 

 **_A happy ending?_ **  
**_Sure enough —_** _Hello darling, welcome home._


End file.
